


Watched the Ocean Eat the Sand

by disarm_d



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canada, Canadian West Coast, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disarm_d/pseuds/disarm_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn turns around so that he’s facing Harry, the last light of the fire blocked by Harry’s shoulder. Except for the sound of the ocean lapping quietly a few meters away, Zayn feels disoriented. Nothing to ground him when the sand is as black as the sky is as black as the trees skirting the beach off in the distance. It would be so easy for Harry to slip into the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watched the Ocean Eat the Sand

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to octette for betaing and to harriet_vane & fitofpique for letting me send them bits as I was writing.

> I am learning to abandon the world  
>  before it can abandon me.
> 
> \--  From [I Am Learning To Abandon the World](http://greatpoets.livejournal.com/3456027.html) by Linda Pastan

 

It’s too dark to see as he looks out the rear window, but Zayn doesn’t think this road is paved. His ass keeps knocking against the hard plastic seats of Liam’s Jeep.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Zayn asks, his voice carried away by the rush of wind. Liam had texted and said they’d come to pick him up at nine -- showed up at ten, which was alright, because Zayn still wasn’t ready to go, except that Niall used the delay to finish the last of Zayn’s beer. It feels like they’ve been driving for a long time, and Zayn realizes that he never found out where they were heading.

“Niall knows about this party at Schooner Cove,” Harry says.

There are no streetlights as they bump along, but Zayn can still see Harry’s eyes, the soft smudge of his face; they’re all crammed together in the back of the Jeep, Louis on the other side of Harry.

“Be there soon then,” Zayn says, and Harry nods.

The car gets louder, working hard to make it up the sudden incline, and Zayn grabs for the seat, bumps his knuckles against Harry’s thigh instead. Harry’s grinning, curls whipping around his face. Zayn’s only wearing a t-shirt and the slam of the night wind has his arms numb. His hand feels thick and useless, so he leaves it wedged between his and Harry’s legs.

“Giv’er, Liam,” Niall cheers as they finally clear the top of the hill.

Zayn drapes his other arm over the side of the car and watches the shadows change as they fly past.

It seems unnecessarily far to go on a Wednesday night, but Zayn keeps quiet. If they listened to him, they’d be sitting on the floor of his bedroom sharing a bowl, but usually in the end he’s glad he let them drag him out, and they _were_ almost there; it’s not long before Laim parks the car.

The walk down the boardwalk to the beach is far enough that Zayn stops halfway down and cracks the cap of the bottle of Bacardi he’s got tucked under his arm. Liam’s leading the way, but Niall’s blond head is easiest to make out in the darkness. Zayn wishes he’d remembered to bring a hoodie, but the rum works just as well.

The party is bigger than Zayn expected and already in full swing. They’ve got a bonfire going, managed to get a whole huge log of driftwood aflame, although it’s smoking like crazy. Zayn finds an empty corner on one of the towels, spread out in a lopsided circle around the fire, and sits himself down.

There are a couple of familiar faces, but Niall’s the one who seems to know everyone, of course. Niall’s only here in the summer (and it’s just been for two years now) but he knows more people than Zayn, who lives here year-round. Liam’s got his arm around someone, who’s gesturing wildly and spilling his beer into the sand -- probably someone who works at the same surf school at Liam. Louis has wrestled someone into the sand and is rolling toward the ocean.

“You want?” Harry asks, dropping a bottle into Zayn’s lap and then flopping down on the sand beside him. Zayn looks down, rolls his eyes, because of course Harry would bring Grey Goose to a beach party. He tips the bottle back, one, two, three, until his sinuses prickle, before capping it and handing it back to Harry, who lets it fall over onto the sand beneath their legs. Zayn’s empty bottle of rum has rolled away.

“You don’t open tomorrow, do you?” Harry asks, like there’s anything to be done about it now that they’ve worked their way past 2 am.

“Closing,” Zayn says, which means he needs to be there at ten instead of five. It’s not going to be good either way, but at least he won’t have to push through without a quick shower and a couple hours to nap.

“You need to head back?” Harry asks.

“Nah,” Zayn says. He’s not tired now.

Niall is strumming the guitar while Liam sings David Usher, _Outsmarted myself and so easily gave up what I want. Solid by morning. What I wanted, winter by morning._

Harry pushes to his feet. “I want to walk. Come with me,” he says, reaching down for Zayn’s hand before Zayn has replied. He lets Harry pull him up. He clasps Niall on the shoulder as he walks behind him, and Niall turns his head to give a big grin, his cheeks hot pink, both hands on the guitar. Louis lunges for their ankles, rolls around in the sand at their feet, but doesn’t try to follow after them when they step out of the circumference of light provided by the campfire and onto dark sand.

Harry’s got long legs, but he doesn’t walk that fast, ambling along. Zayn steers them closer to the edge of the water where the sand is firmer, and it’s easy to cover distance, the glow of the campfire sinking further and further behind them.

“Where do you want to go?” Zayn asks eventually, when Harry shows no sign of slowing down.

Harry looks over his shoulder.

“Here, I guess,” he says, and rocks to a stop.

Zayn turns around so that he’s facing Harry, the last light of the fire blocked by Harry’s shoulder. Except for the sound of the ocean lapping quietly a few meters away, Zayn feels disoriented. Nothing to ground him when the sand is as black as the sky is as black as the trees skirting the beach off in the distance. It would be so easy for Harry to slip into the night.

Zayn pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, curls his fingers carefully around his lighter, because he’ll never find it again if he drops it into the sand. He flicks on the fire and watches Harry watching him.

He takes a deep drag of smoke and then another, fast because he’s drunk and hungry for it, before passing the butt over to Harry. Harry’s so tidy about it, whether he’s sucking on Zayn’s cigarette or pinching a joint between his fingers. Zayn can picture the careful purse of Harry’s lips, even if it’s too dark to make it out clearly right now.

Harry passes the cigarette back and Zayn covers Harry’s hand with his own as he tries to catch the butt between his fingers. He turns his head away when he exhales to keep the smoke out of Harry’s face. It feels like the goosebumps along his lower back have locked up the skin, drawing it tight.The cold seems taller now that they are away from the fire. He can feel the chill in his chest and running along the insides of his arms, up from his elbows. 

“Should have brought the vodka,” Harry murmurs, like he’s feeling the cold as well. He shuffles forward, toes catching in the sand, and Zayn braces himself, expecting to feel Harry’s icy fingers against the soft of his stomach, or -- something other than the weight of Harry’s hands holding low on his hips, the tug against the waistband of his jeans when Harry threads his fingers through the belt loops. Zayn sets his feet apart, because this is something else he needs to brace against.

It’s been just a month building to this, which might be a long time, but the days have been flying for Zayn. Winter broke and the tourists rolled in. Harry’s new this summer, Niall’s roommate at university, and usually Louis’s sharp with unfamiliars (unless there’s the possibility that he’ll get better tips out of it), but he took to Harry immediately. Zayn doesn’t know Harry at all, but suddenly he’s there with them, all the time. It’s easy to pretend that they’ve always been friends, but they’re not friends yet, even now. He knows what Harry looks like falling off his longboard, how his fingers tap on the rim of his coffee mug while he waits for Zayn to finish his shift at Tuff Beans. He doesn’t know Harry at all.

“This is what you want, right?” Harry asks, as if Zayn was the one who suggested this, the one who dragged them away to be alone in the dark.

“Alright,” Zayn says anyway. Fits their mouths together. It’s easier than it should be, catching Harry’s lips, with only the light of the moon and the span of Harry’s hands on his back to guide him. Harry’s tongue is so, so wet. So soft inside of Zayn’s mouth, licking slow and deep.

He knows the curve of Harry’s lower lip and the sharp cut of Harry’s shoulders beneath his shirt. He drops to his knees, eases Harry’s jeans around his thighs, and learns the long line of his cock.

\--

“You can crash at my place,” Harry says, as Liam pulls back onto the road after dropping Niall off at his house. Liam let Louis out first, so it’s just him and Harry in the backseat now.

“I’ve got to work in five hours,” Zayn says.

Harry’s renting a three-bedroom cabin ten minutes up from Main Street. “One of them doesn’t even have a closet,” Harry said the first time Zayn came over ( _”What the fuck?_ ”), like that changed the fact that he could sleep in a new bed half the days of the week. “It’s basically just two bedrooms and my mom wants to be able to come visit me.” Niall rents a place with his friend Josh every summer, so Harry’s living on his own in the house full of beds.

Zayn’s out the door as soon as Liam brings the car to a stop, waving goodbye and tapping on the passenger side window in thanks as he walks by. He unlocks the door to his basement suite and toes off his runners, dropping his keys on the table as he crosses the room, past the futon and into his bedroom -- which also doesn’t have a closet. He chucks his t-shirt into the hamper -- it’s going to stink of smoke and he needs to remember to do laundry tomorrow. His skin probably smells just as bad, but he wants to shower before leaving, so he pulls on one of the t-shirts draped over the foot of his bed and crawls between the sheets. 

The sun has started to rise and he can see the light come in between the cracks of his blinds. He’s cold, worse now that he’s under the blanket. His thighs are shaking, little tremors running up his calves, and he curls his palms into his belly and waits for it to stop. He lets his fist drop down, rubs the heel of his hand along the ridge of his dick. Just friendly like. He still feels spent from earlier, Harry’s wide mouth and the tight grip of his palm jerking Zayn off. The steady rush and slide of the ocean broken by laughter off in the distance. In the darkness, Zayn felt like he was floating, only Harry’s wet mouth and rough hand to keep him grounded.

He still feels like he’s floating now, squirming against his lumpy mattress and closing his eyes against the first cuts of morning light through the blinds.

\--

His alarm goes off and it’s after nine am, so it’s Julie Nesrallah on the radio telling him that she’s going to play one of Bach’s preludes.

Zayn carefully peels one of his eyes open, easing the sheets back and rolling slowly onto his side. The ground is not steady. He ignores the fridge on his way to the bathroom, showers, and walks to work wearing his cleanest t-shirt and a pair of boardshorts. The trip down the hill is a bit brutal, but his stomach holds up through the first wave of coffee smell assaulting him as he walks through the door.

When it’s finally five, he walks outside to collect the used coffee mugs -- has to wrestle a set away from a pair of tourists. He’s carrying the heavy grey dish tray, but when someone holds the door open for him, he mostly feels annoyed. They’re closed; he shouldn’t have to serve another order, but now he’ll feel like a dick for saying so.

He keeps his head down, walks the dishes over to the counter, grits his teeth and turns around.

It’s Harry who has followed him inside.

Zayn feels like less of a dick saying, “We’re closed.”

“Came to give you a ride home.”

“I live five streets down,” Zayn says.

“It’s Tofino,” Harry says. “There are only five streets in all the town.”

“That doesn’t help your point.”

“What point do you think I’m trying to make?” asks Harry. He’s wearing a knit grey sweater that looks like it’s either made out of a scratchy wool or an unbearably soft weave.

“Just have this and shut up,” Zayn says, throwing one of the day-old bagels in Harry’s general direction and turning to finish the dishes without checking to see if Harry catches it. When they’re all in a group, it’s easy to interact with Harry. Zayn doesn’t know how it’s supposed to be when it’s just the two of them.

“You hung over?” Harry asks, his mouth audibly full of bagel.

“No,” Zayn says. Harry’s sitting on the table closest to the counter, chewing on a dry bagel. He’s got yesterday’s stubble dirtying his cheeks but it looks like _he_ got more than three hours of sleep last night. Probably just rolled out of bed. Bastard.

“You want to go to the Dockside?” Harry asks.

“Full of tourists.”

“Niall got a table outside.”

Zayn shrugs one shoulder and starts sweeping up coffee grounds. Harry must take this as a yes, because he kicks his legs against the table, finishes the bagel, waits while Zayn closes up and walks them over to his car.

“It’s literally five minutes to walk,” Zayn gripes as Harry pulls onto Campbell Street.

Arcade Fire starts playing when Harry turns on the car, _And if I was bored, you know I would,_ and Zayn gropes around until he figures out that the dock is hiding in the glove compartment, throws Harry’s iPhone into the cup holder and plugs his own iPod into the dock.

“Hey,” Harry says, mildly.

“Tell me again about your favorite band and how no one in the world understands you,” Zayn says, hitting shuffle.

Harry might have had a better comeback, but he cuts himself off to sing along, cranking the volume, “I tried it, I couldn’t fight it.”

The guy walking on the sidewalk beside the car gives them a hard look as they drive by. Harry’s got his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, his curls fluffing out on either side like wings. On the stereo, K-OS starts rapping.

 _Things I said I wouldn’t do, I did ‘em_.

\--

Niall knows the girl serving them, so there’s a never-ending stream of pitchers appearing on their table. It’s not that hot today, which makes it easier for Zayn to slide into tipsy. The throbbing in his temples blinks threateningly and then fades into the background.

“We should go surfing after this,” Louis says.

“It’ll be dark soon,” says Liam. “And you’re drunk.”

“You can make sure we don’t fall in.”

“Without a doubt, you will fall in. That’s not even a question.”

“What kind of surf instructor are you?” Louis asks. “What a hack.”

“I teach children how to hold onto a float board,” Liam says. “It’s like glorified swimming lessons in the ocean.”

“And yet you still haven’t been able to teach Zayn how to swim.”

“I can swim.” Zayn huffs. Just because sometimes he chooses to wear a life jacket on the rougher days doesn’t mean he doesn't know how to let his body go limp so that the waves wash him ashore, which is just as much swimming as the rest of them are doing, he’s just being more honest about it.

“We _should_ go to the pool sometime though,” Liam says, turning to face Zayn earnestly.

Over the rim of his pint, Louis’s eyes are glinting.

“For sure,” Zayn says, because Liam’s training up for rowing season full time, teaching the rest of the week, and driving them around in between. But if he figures out how to add extra hours to the day, Zayn supposes swimming lessons would be alright.

Harry left to go to the bathroom a while back and through the windows into the restaurant, Zayn can see him leaning into the bar, a pretty blonde bartender laughing at something Harry has said, the green of her bra showing over the plunging white neckline of her tank top.

“Harry gets a lot of ass, eh?” Zayn says, nodding toward inside the restaurant. He feels a small nudge of jealous, but it’s easy to let go of when Harry so clearly wants _everyone_ and wants everyone to want him right back.

Louis wiggles his eyebrows appreciatively, while Niall says, “Yes,” and then, “ _Yes,_ ” and then cracks himself up, his head flopping up and down as he nods again and again.

“In first year,” Niall says, “he got with Professor Flack, who has like one hundred percent of the chili peppers in Rate Your Professor, and is definitely over thirty. In first year,” Nial repeats. “When he was seventeen.”

“Nice,” Louis says.

“So that’s why you’re rooming with him again,” Zayn says.

Niall’s cheeks are still flushed pink from laughing. “Well, it’s not a _shortage_ of girls,” he says. “But Harry’s a good guy.”

“We know,” Louis says, and like he knows he is being talked about, Harry makes his way back to the table. Louis grabs him as he walks by, and Harry falls into it, settling himself on Louis’s lap. “We love this old slut,” Louis says, skritching his fingers through Harry’s hair. Harry beams and tilts his head for better access, even though he clearly has no idea what they’re talking about.

“Don’t tell stories,” he says suspiciously, pointing at Niall, when Louis lets him up and he slides back into his own seat.

“Not stories if they’re true,” Niall says.

“Yeah, but it’s, like. Objectifying.”

“Oh, shut it,” Niall says. “Everyone in the English department knows you slept with her.”

“She’s a nice girl,” Harry says, shrugging, his mouth curling up at the corners like the cat who got away with the whole bowl full of cream.

Niall shakes his head at the table, like, _See what I have to deal with?_

Harry notices and grins with full dimples.

“I bet no one in the world knows how to be mad at you,” Louis says, pinching at Harry’s cheek.

“Not if I can help it,” Harry says.

Zayn tops off his half-empty glass with beer. They’re drinking Race Rocks and it goes down easily.

“I was serious about the surfing,” Louis says.

“Veto,” Liam says. He’s the only of them who gets one, and they never officially agreed to it, but somehow everyone respects Liam’s veto. 

“We’ll go longboarding then,” Louis says. “No one ever died longboarding.”

Zayn snorts. It’s not even a good try, and Liam’s never going to fall for that. Louis’s the only other one of them who lives in Tofino full time, where he serves food at SoBo. He gets away with approximately _everything_ , Zayn doesn’t know how he does it. That’s why they need Liam. Zayn doesn’t say no to Louis either.

“Skimboarding,” Liam counters.

Louis puffs up his cheeks, says, “Fine,” and leans across the table, darting in to pinch Liam’s nipple and seal the deal.

“We’re finishing the beer first,” Niall says, giving slightly alarmed eyes to first Liam then Louis. He looks to Zayn for backup, and Zayn chugs the rest of his glass in a show of solidarity.

“Yeah,” Harry says, groping for the pitcher. Then, “Liam’s driving, right?”

\--

Zayn’s better at skimboarding than he is at surfing, but it’s not something he ever wants to talk about. He graduated from high school in Port Alberni and he didn’t want to work at the paper mill and he didn’t want to work at the lumber mill, and learning to surf seemed like a reasonable alternative. He’s decent at skimboarding (less so tonight when he’s clumsy from beer and exhaustion) but he didn’t take to surfing quite like he imagined he might.

Louis is drunk and he keeps pointing, narrating as Zayn slides along the beach. They’ve got about ten more minutes of sunlight, which works out because at some point Zayn’s going to need to get some sleep, since he opens tomorrow. Already it seems like the days are getting shorter, but it’s only July, so how can that be? Zayn doesn’t think he has another winter in Tofino left in him and he knows he doesn’t have in him even another day in Port Alberni. Maybe next he could try Sydney, see if he can get a job at the airport, or -- The only time he really notices that he’s living on an island is when he has to think about what’s next.

He passes the board over to Niall, and walks further up the beach, falling onto the sand beside Harry. Harry’s eyes settle on the line of Zayn’s collarbone, wet from the water dripping off the tips of Zayn’s hair.

Harry is gloriously unsubtle. Zayn spends so much time trying not to show everything, and seeing the ease with which Harry wants and then asks for what he wants is staggering.

“You seen my t-shirt?” Zayn asks.

“Nope,” Harry says, and then he drags his gaze up. He’s got green, green eyes and a tangle of curls across his forehead. Zayn thinks about kissing Harry, about pushing him back in the sand and sliding his thigh between Harry’s legs. In the water, there’s a huge splash, and then Louis starts giggling like a hyena while Niall curses.

Harry grins at him, full on with dimples until he lets it slide into something else.

It must be easier for Harry to want, easy when it’s all just right there for him to take, when it’s just a matter of choosing.

\--

Zayn said, “You can sober up at my place,” when Liam pulled over in front of his house and Harry followed him out of the car, but the first thing Zayn did when they got inside was to start packing a bowl. Harry folds himself up at the end of the couch, wraps his arms around his knees, and watches as Zayn sets up the bong.

Zayn takes the first hit, holds his lighter over the bowl. The water gurgles happily as he fills the tube with smoke and then he pulls out the choke and sucks it all away. The heat of the smoke hits like a blade to his breast bone and he passes the bong over to Harry, holds his breath and ignores the way his eyes are watering.

There’s no beer left in the fridge (stupid Niall), so Zayn fills a glass with water, offers it to Harry, who gulps loudly before handing it back.

Zayn hits it a little easier this time, tilts his head back when he breathes out the smoke. He watches Harry, the way he’s so deliberate about it, like fire, suck, bubble, pull, breathe, wait, blow. The same as him except he imagines Harry counting beats in his head.

Harry’s grin gets stupid and he puts the bong on the table. They haven’t finished the bowl, but Zayn’s body is so fucked up it doesn’t seem to know it’s high right now and he doesn’t want to push his luck and blaze over. He thinks right now he could do whatever and he wouldn’t feel a thing, but that’s probably not true. That’s never really how it goes. He slides his cigarettes out of his pocket and puts one in his mouth, kicking his toe in the direction of the table until Harry bends over and picks up the lighter.

He lights Zayn’s smoke for him, what a gentleman, and Zayn’s barely finished exhaling before he surges forward and crushes their lips together. His head isn’t right for this, he realizes belatedly as his tooth, blunt, digs into his lip, numb. The sharpness has gone away. Instead, he opens his lips wide and seals his mouth with Harry’s, tongue sliding slow and deep.

“This is what you wanted, right?” Zayn asks, like it’s Harry’s fault that he’s too tired to remember how to kiss properly.

Harry blinks slowly. He smiles: to himself and then to Zayn, and crawls across the couch to settle in Zayn’s lap.

“I’m baked,” he whispers, hiding his face against Zayn’s neck.

Zayn runs his hands down from the center of Harry’s back to settle at his hips.

“‘s chronic,” he says and then makes this noise like, _hah_ , when Harry opens his wet mouth onto Zayn’s neck.

Harry’s all the way naked by the time they get to Zayn’s bed and Zayn pushes him backwards, sends him sprawling against the mattress. He’s got a clean tan line low around his hips, got a clean cut to his hips, to his stomach, to his chest, and maybe one day Zayn won’t be so fucking easy for pretty people.

It’s the same, they’ve done this before. Zayn already knows how to fit his mouth around Harry’s cock. He wants it in this way that he doesn’t like to think about: that he actually likes sucking cock, that he’s eager to get his mouth on Harry’s dick. It would be impossible to look at Harry and not want him, but it’s more than that. It’s always like this. He’s with a guy and then everywhere he goes, he’s noticing men. Last summer he was with Perrie, and all he could look at were women, all he wanted was her and her soft girl body and the slope of her breasts and the smell of her cunt when he crawled between her thighs. He doesn’t know how to sort wanting when it’s all and then nothing, back and forth.

Zayn can’t hear Harry making any noise, but he’s also very far away, all the way down at the foot of the bed, his arm braced against the mattress as he works on Harry’s cock with his lips and his fingers and his tongue. The thick, slow feeling of his mouth is still there and time is happening somewhere outside of this room. Zayn thinks maybe he’s been sucking on Harry’s dick all night and he didn’t even notice, the hours just slipped away. Harry slipped away as well, they’re so far apart.

He doesn’t realize when Harry comes until he notices the back of his hand getting wet, wetter, and realizes that it’s not just spit dripping past the ring of his lips to where his hand is working over the rest of Harry’s cock.

Zayn slides himself off of Harry and tries to remember how to navigate the mattress. His body is heavy, like someone is playing gravity tricks on him, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to crawl all the way up to the pillows.

Harry moves, twisting his body around in this impossibly confusing way until his face is pressed up against Zayn’s. Oh, they’re kissing.

 _I’m too tired_ , Zayn thinks. _You already got what you wanted_. But Harry’s hands open his pants and pull out his hard dick and Zayn is suddenly choked with how grateful he is that Harry didn’t listen to him. He _does_ want this, oh, Harry’s tongue licking the head of his cock, and then they’re far away again, Zayn is far away. He puts his fingers in his mouth, presses down on the flat of his molar. He waits for orgasm, panicked with how badly he wants it, how desperate he is all the way down to the hollow joints of his bones. How terrible to have caught all this wanting from Harry. Zayn rocks his hips forward and tries to give some of it back.

\--

Zayn gets paid on Friday and he has an appointment with his tattoo artist at 6. Harry’s there waiting, but Zayn didn’t know if he would be, so he hasn’t mentioned the appointment yet. He never makes plans with Harry -- doesn’t have to, because Harry’s there every time they get together as a group and then sometimes he shows up while Zayn is closing Tuff Beans. Zayn doesn’t work regular hours and he never tells Harry his schedule, so he wonders if there are times when Harry arrives to find he’s already gone home.

Zayn follows him over to where the car is parked but lingers by the hood instead of getting inside.

“I’ve got plans,” Zayn says, when Harry turns around. “Getting inked,” he says, shrugging his shoulders preemptively.

“I’ll come,” Harry says. Then, “What are you getting?”

Zayn lifts his hand, crosses his fingers and waits until Harry nods in understanding and says, “Sweet.”

Zayn’s been working on the sketch for months, knows every curve of every line is there on purpose, so even if he realizes later that he could have done it differently, at least he’ll know the mistakes were intentional. Waiting for it to be right paid off, Zayn thinks. The design _is_ pretty sweet.

\--

This is easier than when he got the tattoo across his collarbone, easier than the splash of black wave inking up the inside of his wrist. It still hurts. Harry watches him, chews on his lower lip, and Zayn tries to make his face remember how to smile.

“Does it hurt?” Harry asks.

“Just have to breath through it,” Zayn says, and then the next thing he knows Harry is pointing out a star in the big book of stock images and lying down in the seat beside Zayn’s.

“This is going to go well, I think,” Harry says, lifting his arm above his head, and Zayn has to spend the rest of the hour listening to Harry try to muffle his giggles into his opposite shoulder.

\--

“Ouch,” Harry says, scratching at the edge of the tape holding the plastic to his underarm. “Ouch.”

“Don’t touch it,” Zayn says. “They _told_ you.” Harry is the abject worst at this. He is not coming with Zayn to get his next tattoo. Which probably won’t happen this summer anyway, so it doesn’t matter, but principles count for something. Harry watching Zayn across the space between their two chairs and biting down on the inside of his cheek, what a fiasco.

“This hurts like burning,” Harry says, giving Zayn a demanding look as if _he_ had anything at all to do with what has happened.

“Yes?” Zayn says.

They’re walking down the side of the street towards Harry’s car.

“I’m thirsty. Is there a Starbucks around here?” Harry asks.

Zayn crosses his arms and says, kind of meanly, “Not for another 50 kilometres, but I do work at a coffee shop,” and Harry just nods, like, _Okay, let’s go there_.

“It’s just Kicking Horse coffee,” Zayn says. He doesn’t feel like opening again now that he’s got the place closed up. “I’ve got beans at home.”

“Can we do that?” Harry asks, even though obviously Zayn just offered.

In hindsight, Zayn wishes he’d left Harry to his own devices instead, because they get back and Harry burns the crap out of his thumb trying to pour the water from Zayn’s electric kettle into the French press. It’s just cheap and the plastic gets blisteringly hot, and Harry’s skin obliges, popping up white even though he holds it under cold water for ten minutes while Zayn finishes making the coffee.

Harry’s better about second degree burns than he was getting ink and Zayn forgets to be annoyed, takes Harry over to the couch and smokes him out, crawls onto the floor and sucks Harry’s cock. Zayn’s throat is raw from his last toke and he can’t take Harry deep, just mouths sloppily at the head. Sometimes Zayn sucks hard and flicks the tip of his tongue over the slit of Harry’s cock and Harry thumps his hand against the armrest, the fabric deadening the sound.

Harry looks like a hot mess, holding an ice cube wrapped in a dish cloth to his thumb to stop the blistering, the plastic wrap around his arm coming untaped at the corner where he scratched it off.

“What is up with you today?” Zayn asks after he dragged his nails up the inside of Harry’s thighs and Harry bucked his hips, crooning low in his throat as his cock flooded Zayn’s mouth with salt.

He lets Harry put himself back into his pants, and grabs the papers and his bag of bud and starts rolling.

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “I was feeling antsy. Sometimes there’s not a lot going on here.”

“You’re bored,” Zayn says. 

“I guess,” Harry says. “Sometimes. It’s been raining a lot lately.”

It has been wet all week, but nothing outside of the norm. It never gets that hot here.

“Why did you come to Tofino for the whole summer? You’d have a lot more going on for you if you stayed in Vancouver.”

Harry shrugs, tucking his thumbs into his jean pockets. The top button is still undone from when Zayn pulled it open. “I needed a break.”

“Hard life of a student.” Zayn thinks he mostly manages to keep his tone light.

“I’m on a full scholarship to U.B.C.,” Harry says tightly. “I have to keep an 81 average.”

“Or else your parents start paying for you.” He doesn’t want to be mean, but seriously: who cares?

“Right,” Harry says, twisting his mouth into a smile.

“What,” Zayn says.

“Nothing.” Harry rolls his shoulders to crack his neck. “I should go.”

“I’m not helping with the boredom.”

“I didn’t say anything about you,” Harry says. “Don’t get defensive.”

“No, I just live here.”

“So you know better than anyone else.”

“I’m not bored,” Zayn says. Not like Harry is, just waiting for the summer to pass so he can get on with his real life, already one foot out the door.

“Liar.”

“I’m not more bored here than I was in Port Alberni,” Zayn says. “And I can guarantee you know nothing about that.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, pushing to his feet. He lets his hands dangle at his sides and squints at something outside the one small window, set high toward the ceiling. The angle’s not right to see anything at street level; the window just pulls in a little natural sunlight. That’s not going to give Harry any answers.

Harry says, “Thanks for making me coffee,” and lets himself out. 

He’s left his ice cube melting in the cloth on the side table and Zayn carries it over to the sink, stands with his fingers curled over the edge of the counter and fights the impulse to chase after Harry. They’re not dating, Harry’s not his boyfriend, it doesn’t matter if he’s pissed him off. Zayn’s still learning this, how to want a little bit from someone without letting it consume him. Harry already knows the way to package wanting into discrete increments. One day Zayn’s going to figure out the secret.

\--

Zayn doesn’t want to go out, but Liam’s waiting outside in the car, so it’s too late to play sick. Liam drives him and Niall down to meet Louis and Harry, who are well on their way to setting everything but the drift log on fire.

“What did you think was going to happen?” Louis complains when Liam takes the box of matches away from him.

“Nothing that bad involving _fire_ , since you’re ten metres away from the ocean.”

“Give it to Niall,” Harry says, nodding at the matches. “He’s good at starting fires.”

“Why did you throw seaweed onto the logs?” Niall asks.

“Yours is not to ask why,” Louis says. “But possibly you’re going to want to start over with some new wood.” And then Louis says, “Heh, wood.”

Louis and Liam get into a pretty intense slap fight (but not that bad, or Liam would have Louis in a headlock by now), so Zayn walks with Niall down the beach to collect wood. Niall is this happy presence in the dusk, hopping up the shore when he spots driftwood that might work. Most of the logs are too heavy to carry back, or soaking wet from all of the rain, and by the time they have enough to head back, the sun has almost set.

Niall knows what he’s doing; he makes a little tipi and sets the kindle underneath, cupping his hands protectively and blowing into the tiny flame until it catches on the wood for real.

“Nialler!” Harry cheers loudly, throwing Niall a beer. The throw is off and the bottle lands in the sand. It pours foam everywhere when Niall opens it.

“We’ve talked about this,” Niall says, shaking his wet hands. He chugs back what is left in the bottle.

“Don’t throw beer,” Harry says. “I remember now.” And then he lobs another bottle over to Niall, who catches it this time and cradles it carefully.

Louis’s trying to roll a joint in his lap and he keeps cursing to himself as the wind fucks him up.

“Just get in my mouth,” Louis says, pinching at the bud angrily.

“Why don’t you ever do this at home?” Zayn asks. “Or get a pipe?”

“Do you want to help?” Louis asks.

“Looks like you’ve almost got it,” Zayn says, nodding encouragingly.

Louis rolls a loose, lumpy joint, but it holds together well enough when they pass it around. Zayn pulls off his runners and buries his toes in the sand.

Harry walks over to the ocean and wades in. The waves catch silver cuts of moonlight but Harry’s just a dark figure against a dark background. He kicks at the water for a while before coming back, stepping into the warm light of the fire. His skin is still red beneath the black line of his ink.

“Lou,” Harry moans, tucking himself under Louis’s arm. Louis wraps Harry up, presses his cheek to the top of Harry’s head.

“Talk to me,” Louis says. “Tell me your problems that I may take them away.”

Harry grumbles something and Zayn turns away, walks himself around to the other side of the fire and sits at Niall’s feet. Niall’s found the best spot on the log and he’s strumming his guitar happily, humming to himself. Zayn wonders what it would be like to be Niall. If he could figure it out, maybe he could capture some of that for himself.

“Play me a song,” Zayn says, twisting his head backward but making sure to keep out of the way of Niall’s hands on the guitar.

“What do you want to hear?”

“I don’t care.”

Niall sets his fingers against the frets, strums carefully a few times before starts into the melody proper, and starts to sing, “In the early morning rain with a dollar in my hand, with an aching in my heart, and my pockets full of sand, I'm a long way from home.”

\--

“Am I late?” Zayn asks when he answers the knock on his door to find Louis standing outside.

“Are you?” Louis asks.

“No,” says Zayn. “We didn’t have plans.”

“Surprise.” Louis says.

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“You’ve always got Monday and Tuesdays off,” Louis says. “Your schedule is not the great mystery you like to pretend it to be.”

“Not _always_ ,” Zayn says.

“Like nine times out of ten. Twenty-four out of twenty-five times, even. It is statistically likely.”

“Sometimes I have to cover Rohit’s shifts,” Zayn says.

Louis says, “But today you’re here and also, surprise, here I am, and I’ve rented us a boat and we’re going to Strawberry Island. Yay, adventures.”

\--

When Louis said that he rented a boat, he really meant that he was going to troll up and down the dock until he found an unlocked paddle boat to liberate for the afternoon, but he also manages to procure a life jacket for Zayn, so Zayn doesn’t mind that he’s stuck doing most of the paddling while Louis gives a nonstop narration of everything that has happened to him in the last week.

It’s not the best idea to be doing this trip with a paddle boat. They start making the curve around the floathouses until Louis thinks he spots a Blue Heron and steers them toward the rocks.

“Should we get out?” Louis asks when they get close to the rocky shore of the island.

“It’s private property,” Zayn says, which isn’t a yes or a no.

“Humph,” Louis says. “Paddle us around to the other side, we’ll see what’s over there.”

“Next time you should steal us a motorboat,” Zayn says.

“Temporarily liberate for our enjoyment,” Louis corrects. “And those things usually have locks.”

Zayn gets them around to the other side. His legs are starting to hurt, but it’s in a good way.

“What’s that?” Louis asks. “See that, in the bushes?”

“Was it another Heron?” Zayn guess. Louis is remarkably good at being the only one in a group to notice rare animals. Purportedly.

“I think I saw a sasquatch.”

“Wow,” Zayn says. “That’s quite something. How do you suppose it got all the way over here?”

“Sasquatches can swim,” Louis says scornfully. He steers them in close to the island. 

Zayn lets them drift in the water, the tides doing more to wash them into the shore than Louis’s attempts at steering. Zayn arches his back, cracks it against the plastic back of his seat. The ocean is calm today, a deep grey under the cloud cover muting the sun. There’s a trail of sweat sliding down the back of Zayn’s neck from all the paddling and he can feel every shift in the breeze.

“What was Harry upset about?” Zayn asks. “A couple days ago, on the beach.”

Louis’s still on the lookout for sasquatches, and he answers absently, “I guess just the divorce or whatever. He got in a fight with his mom.”

The only thing Zayn knows about Harry’s relationship with his mother is that no one could come to his house in the week leading up to her visit last month, and they didn’t see him for the three days that she was here.

“What did he fight with his mom about?”

“Same stuff as always,” Louis says, leaning over the edge of the boat to get a better look at something in the distance. “She’s pretty harsh.”

Louis’s better at getting close to people than Zayn is, of course he would know this when Zayn didn’t. Zayn considers being jealous of Louis, but he knows that Louis is better because he throws himself out there, head first, full force, and Zayn _can’t_. He doesn’t know how Louis can be everything to everyone and still hold something back for himself.

“Right,” Zayn says. It’s just a little island and it doesn’t take them long to make the trip around. “Don’t fall in. I am definitely not diving in to save you.”

“You’d save me,” Louis says confidently, leaning a little closer to the edge.

Zayn shakes his head and blinks slowly. He’s wearing a life jacket, so maybe he’d reach out to give Louis a hand back onto the boat but that’s _it_.

“We’ve got to head back,” Louis says, nodding at Zayn instead of starting to paddle himself. “We’re meeting the guys at seven.”

“What’s on for tonight?” Zayn asks. He starts working the pedals again.

“You’ll see.”

\--

It’s a long drive down a dirt road before they hit the clearing. Someone’s set this up proper, with a makeshift station for a dj and floodlights pointing in a circle. Louis disappears into the crowd before Liam’s even got the car in park and they all trail after him. Zayn’s not drunk enough for how loud the music is, but that’s easy enough to fix. Easier yet when Harry wraps his fingers around Zayn’s elbow, leans in close to say, “I’ve got stuff for us if you want to get fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. He doesn’t have to work tomorrow.

Harry’s got happy yellow tabs in an old breath mint tin that he passes around. Niall then Louis then Zayn, while Liam flaps around about finding them bottles of water. Zayn takes the bottle when offered, chugs it down in one go, passes the empty back to Liam. Weaves his way through the crowd until he’s surrounded by people, surrounded by squirming bodies thrashing to the music. He’s one of the swarm now and he moves with the hive, closes his eyes and waits to fly away.

He doesn’t notice Harry’s hands apart from all of the other hands when Harry finds him some infinite time later, the incalculable distance between when they first arrived and now stretching into the sky and back before grounding on Harry’s hands at Zayn’s hips. His fingers loop into Zayn’s belt loops.

“Liam says you have to drink water,” Harry shouts into Zayn’s neck.

Zayn cranes his head around. Harry’s got kaleidoscope eyes and his skin is the same white as the moonlight falling into the ocean.

“Water?” Zayn asks.

“Liam,” Harry says.

“Where?”

“We need to find him.”

Zayn shakes his head. “Dance with me.”

“Liam said water first.”

“After.”

Harry starts laughing. All around them is this whir of motion and force. Harry doesn’t move his fingers away from Zayn’s belt loops and dancing is more like treading on each other’s toes with an increased lack of concern. Sometimes Harry sends his giggles to the bare stretch of neck under Zayn’s jaw and it feels like bubbles popping against his skin.

“Liam said we had to go find him,” Harry remembers eventually.

“Okay,” Zayn says.

“Come.”

Zayn shakes his head. They’re surrounded by dark, dark forest, and he wants to stay here with the floodlights and the blasts of bodies moving under the heavy weight of the music.

“I’ll be back,” Harry says. “Wait here.” He frees his fingers from Zayn’s pants.

“I know that you’re going to leave, but you don’t know that I’m already gone.” Zayn lifts his arms and tries to feel the beat of the music beneath his fingertips.

“You’re right here, Zayn,” Harry says, cupping Zayn’s face with both hands.

\--

Zayn wakes up and he doesn’t know where he is. This isn’t his bed. He rolls over and gets a faceful of curls.

“Stop it,” he says, batting at Harry’s head.

“What,” Harry grumbles.

“Shh,” Zayn says because even though he can’t see a clock, he knows it’s too early to wake up. Harry’s bed is really comfortable, and Harry too, once he gets his curls under control and rolls on his side, making room for Zayn to snug up behind him.

\--

The next time Zayn wakes, he’s alone in the bed, and even though his head is throbbing, he knows he’s not going to be able to fall back to sleep.

He walks down the hall and finds Harry sitting with his iPad at the kitchen table, which is one large slab of weathered wood, like a reclaimed barn door. The whole cabin is full of furniture like that: authentically weathered at Restoration Hardware, or some crap like that. Zayn legitimately found his coffee table outside and reclaimed it for himself, but the laminate wood print looks nothing like this.

“Morning,” Harry says, rolling the cover over his iPad so the screen clicks to black.

Zayn says, “Hey, sorry for crashing on you or whatever,” and takes the seat across from Harry’s.

“Nah,” Harry says. “You were just a bit out of it.”

Not so out of it that he doesn’t remember last night, lying in Harry’s bed and wrapping himself around the warm stretch of Harry’s body, while Harry lay soft and still for him, let Zayn pet his hair until he was finally able to sleep. Harry’s curls are a fluffy mess now. Zayn can remember how they felt under his fingers, but that had to be the E because there’s no way Harry’s hair is actually as insanely, addictively soft as Zayn found it last night.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, looking down at his hands. “Sorry.”

“You okay now?”

“Yup.” Zayn puts his palm on on the table and traces his thumb nail around a knot in the wood. “You okay?”

“I’m good,” Harry says. “Didn’t hit me like it did you.”

“Not just last night.” Zayn turns his hand over so his palm faces up and looks over at Harry.

“I’m fine,” Harry says. He seems so calmly blank, peaceful about it like he doesn’t even have to try to keep -- whatever else from showing. Zayn wonders if Harry has friends, back in Vancouver, who can read his face when he’s like this. Zayn can’t. He knows the way Harry staggers as he’s trying to crawl out from the tug and flood of the tide, knows how Harry looks when he’s bathed in light from the bonfire, the white of his teeth and the pink of his cheeks. He still doesn’t know Harry at all.

“Your parents are getting divorced?” Zayn asks.

“Yeah. My mom and my stepdad, so I already know how this goes.” Harry rubs his thumb over the edge of his iPad, smoothing over the smooth plastic of the cover.

Zayn curls his fingers into his palm. “You never said anything.”

“Shocking only to you, but we don’t actually talk all that much.”

Harry looks small sitting at the big wooden table, surrounded by a house full of stuff that belongs to someone else.

“We can talk,” Zayn says.

“Or I could make breakfast,” says Harry. And then he scrambles eggs and cooks baking powder biscuits and serves everything on a plate covered in crispy bacon.

“You’re a good cook,” Zayn says, plowing through his food in spite of the initial wave of nausea. 

“I’m not totally useless,” Harry says, tapping out a rhythm with the tines of his fork on the side of his plate.

Zayn presses his lips together. He carries his plate into the kitchen and starts on the dishes, soaking egg off the frying pan, rinsing off the baking sheets.

He doesn’t think anything of only wearing last night’s boxers until Harry comes up behind him, trails his fingers down the curve of Zayn’s lower back.

Zayn turns, keeping his hands at his sides, water dripping off his fingertips. Harry lifts his arms and rests his elbows on Zayn’s shoulders. He bends forward to press their foreheads together.

Zayn feels small under the weight of Harry leaning on him. “Is your mom mad that you’re staying here for the summer?” he asks, whispering against Harry’s mouth.

Harry signs, and Zayn can feel his breath.

“My mom doesn’t care what I do,” Harry says, “so long as whatever it is, I do the best.”

Zayn waits.

“She’s not thrilled,” Harry says, quietly, lightly, in contrast with the heavy press of his body.

Zayn wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, clasps his hands behind Harry’s back. Holds steady until eventually Harry pulls away.

“I’m going to shower,” Harry says. “Then let’s go somewhere.”

\--

They walk down the shore and back again, and even though Zayn’s bones ache like someone has been drilling into them all night long, he keeps pace with Harry.

They stop at the docks on the way back, and Harry asks, “For dinner?” and then Zayn nods, he asks for, “Two, please.”

The fisherman pulls a live crab out of the trap, cracks it in half across the edge of the dock and throws the guts back into the water in this big wet flourish.

They take the crabs home in a clear plastic bag still dripping with seawater and Harry melts half a pound of butter in the microwave, pulls out a matching set of metal shell crushers and sets the table while the crabs cook quickly in a giant stock pot full of boiling water.

He’s good in the kitchen and Zayn sits at the table and watches him navigate the billow of steam when he takes the lid off the pot, the quickness of his hands pulling crab halves out of the water with plastic tongs.

The crab meat is soft and salty, from the ocean and from the butter, and Zayn sucks the last of the flesh off a piece of cartilage before throwing it into the pile of red shell shards. It’s easy with just the two of them, Harry licking a drip of butter off his wrist, bumping his toes against Zayn’s under the table. It’s too easy.

“What are the guys doing tonight?” Zayn asks. 

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “Should we invite them over?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, pushing away from the table.

Harry texts while Zayn clears the table and eventually the rest of the boys show up. 

“Liam wants to get his books before classes start,” Louis announces, dropping a six pack of Piper’s Pale Ale on the table. “Roadtrip to Victoria.”

Zayn dries off his hands on the back of the t-shirt he borrowed from Harry and grabs one of the bottles. He only ever sees Liam in the summer, so it’s easy to forget that he actually goes to school, especially since Liam cares a lot more about his performance on the rowing team than his grades.

“Might as well swing over to Vancouver too,” Harry says. He looks over at Niall, “We can start setting up the place again.”

“I still can’t believe your parents are covering rent for the summer,” Niall says. “We could have just got subletters.”

Harry shrugs. “Easier this way.”

\--

It takes forever to drive down to Victoria, even though Liam comes around to pick him up at 6 am, blasting the horn when Zayn wasn’t waiting outside. Zayn wasn’t technically out of bed either, but he got his bag together pretty fast considering. Hopefully someone else brought extra t-shirts, toothpaste, and deodorant. And shampoo, and also a charger for his cell phone.

There are a lot of bunnies on campus and Niall stalks around angrily as they wait for Liam to finish in the bookstore.

“Classes don’t start until September, right?” Louis asks.

“Yeah,” Harry says.

“And it is currently August?”

“Yeah.”

“So why are we here?”

“Liam’s going to get a head start,” Harry says. “I don’t know, you’ve known him longer than I have.”

“He doesn’t make more sense with time,” says Louis.

Harry’s sitting on the metal bench, his feet out straight in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

“This seems to be taking a long time,” Zayn says. “They’ve probably got coffee here, somewhere, I’ll be back.” It’s either that or curling up in one of the lusher bushes for a nap.

\--

“Zayn,” Liam says, and no one has ever manage to sound so long-suffering and yet still so fond. “We’ve been here ten minutes and already you’re a member of the four-twenty club.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Zayn says, passing the joint back to the very nice girl with dreadlocks. He was looking for coffee, honestly, but the group of people smoking up beside one of the buildings proved easier to locate.

“So where is the coffee?” Zayn asks, follow Liam back to where the rest of the guys are waiting.

Turns out that the coffee shop in the SUB serves Kicking Horse as well. Life on an island is like an infinite loop.

\--

Liam says they have to try for the 7 o’clock ferry because if they miss that one, there’s still the nine o’clock, but if they miss _that_ then they’re screwed. Zayn feels like his hip is going to pop out of its socket from all of the sitting he’s done today, and when they finally get the car in park, Zayn bolts and spends the rest of the ride playing an elaborate game of hide and seek with Louis.

They’ve taken Liam and Harry’s cars because Liam’s Jeep isn’t really meant to hold three in the back. Niall’s riding with Liam because he has more idea of where they’re going, and Louis and Zayn are with Harry.

Hey Rosetta comes on the radio. Zayn looks out the window and listens while Harry sings along quietly, “ _Did you notice that happiness happens less the more often you stop to find where it's been hiding_.”

Harry drives them up South Marine Drive, and Zayn stares out the window. The houses here are from another planet, a place that Zayn has only seen glimpses of through movies. Harry takes Dunbar until they’re in Point Grey, weaves through side streets and pulls down a wooded driveway that stretches on and on. Parks the car and hops outside, their ambassador to the other planet. Zayn looks over at Louis and grimaces before unbuckling his seatbelt. It seemed like a good idea to stay at Harry’s family’s house instead of sleeping on the floor of his apartment, but Zayn is now questioning that.

Harry unlocks the door to the house, keys in the security code, and locks the front door again once they’re all inside.

“Where’s your mom?” Niall asks. The rest of the house is audibly silent.

“I don’t know, she’s on the board of the Heart and Stroke Foundation, so she’s usually gone doing something for that.” Harry pokes at the wall, and the hallway slowly illuminates, spreading light down into the rest of the house. “You guys hungry?”

Harry’s kitchen is made of this white stone that doesn’t take any of the heat from the room; it is so, so cool beneath Zayn’s fingertips. He’s got this weird stove that’s just a black rectangle with the stencils of circles, no actual burners. At first it seems like there’s no fridge, but Harry opens what had looked like a wooden cupboard door and it turns out the fridge was hiding back there. There are two ovens, neither of which Harry uses when he loads of a plate with tortilla chips, black olives, sweet peppers, and nukes cheese over them in the microwave.

Harry’s a good host. He knows how to make everyone happy, comfortable, even in this monolith of a house.

“What should I do with this?” Zayn asks, carrying the mostly empty plate back into the kitchen when they’re finished with it.

“Just put it down the garburator,” Harry says, pilling glasses into the dishwasher.

Once Harry is finished, there’s nothing on the counters but the bowl full of lemons.

“Can’t even tell we were here,” Zayn says.

“Nope,” Harry says, closing the door of the dishwasher. He leads them down a long hallway and says, “There are two guest rooms, put your stuff down and then we can watch TV in the family room or whatever.”

Getting the TV turned on seems like it would be an impossible process, given all of the different lights that start flashing from a half-dozen different boxes, but all it takes it the press of a button. 

Liam lasts through one _Family Guy_ rerun before he says, “I’m beat,” and Niall leaves with his laptop shortly after.

“Harry?” a woman’s voice calls out.

“In here, Mom,” Harry yells.

“Hi, sweetie,” his mom says, sliding off her long tan jacket and throwing it over the back of the chair. “You got in okay?”

“Yeah, it was good,” Harry says. “Got the seven ferry.”

“You should have just taken the helijet,” his mother says.

Harry shrugs and follows her out of the room.

“This is kind of fucked up,” Zayn whispers to Louis across the huge stretch of white leather couch.

“I know,” Louis says, giggling high in his throat. “What are we even doing here?” Louis grew up just north of Courtenay Comox, and then he backpacked his way up to the Yukon and back. The best thing about Louis is that no matter how drunk someone gets, he’s always already seen someone drunker.

“Leaving tomorrow,” Zayn says.

“What do you think Harry and Niall’s apartment is like?”

“Can’t be as bad as this,” Zayn says. “Right?”

“Nothing is as bad as this,” says Louis.

Eventually Harry comes back and says goodnight, and then Louis heads to bed as well. Zayn needs to get to sleep, but he’s so tired he’s gotten wired and he knows he won’t be able to sleep.

He watches three episodes of _The Trailer Park Boys_ before he hears noise in the house, and clicks the TV off just in case. He would have tried to find the mute button, but that’s one very tiny button to locate in a pile of remote controls.

“Why are you still up?” Harry asks, padding into the room. He’s just wearing boxers and they’re hanging low, low around his hips.

“Not tired,” Zayn says. 

“We’ve been up for like twenty hours. Come on,” Harry says. “I’ve got something that will help.”

Harry takes them back to his bedroom, disappears inside of his closet, and walks out holding a metal lockbox. 

“How old is that?” Zayn asks when Harry pulls out a dimebag.

“Since Christmas. That’s okay, right?”

“Just stale,” Zayn says, shrugging. “What about your mom?”

Harry shakes his head. “She didn’t notice when I was fourteen, she’s not going to notice now.”

Harry sits down at his desk while Zayn lingers at the foot of the bed, kicking at the bedskirt without sitting down. Harry rolls and then he opens his window, pushing his bedside table out of the way so that they can stand in front of it, side by side. The window starts at Zayn’s waist and he can lean out, pushing his head into the night air when he inhales, his shoulder pressed against Harry’s. They pass the joint back and forth until it’s so tiny it burns his fingers.

It’s really quiet outside, and dark. Not dark like it gets in the forest, but all the landscaping is thick enough to block out the light of the other houses.

“You going to sleep?” Harry asks without moving away from the window.

“Maybe,” Zayn says. “I’ll let you have your room back.”

“I’m not tired now either,” Harry says, though he looks like a stiff breeze would roll him right back into bed.

Zayn walks backwards, hops onto Harry’s bed, and spreads himself out like a starfish.

Harry comes up beside him, sits cross-legged on the bed in between Zayn’s bent knee and the outward reach of his arm.

“I bet this bed has stories,” Zayn says, pushing himself up so that he can lean back against the wall, his legs out straight in front of him.

“I guess,” Harry says, slow and easy.

Zayn’s fully dressed, but Harry’s only in his boxers, this careless sprawl of bare skin beside Zayn. Zayn wonders if Harry knows what he looks like -- how could he not?

Zayn can feel his buzz at the top of his head, shimmering down over everywhere else.

“You usually hook up with girls, right?” Zayn asks. The words come out easy but don’t feel thick on his tongue. Zayn’s not that far gone; the stuff Harry smokes must be pretty mild.

Harry answers slowly, “Yeah, but, like. You’re not the first guy I’ve ever --”

“It didn’t seem like I was,” Zayn says. He can’t even imagine what Harry had looked like when he was a virgin, however long ago that must have been, but something twisting up from the bottom of his rib cage likes to think about Harry learning how to be with a guy. “Tell me about the first.”

“His name was Nick,” Harry says. “He’s the, um, manager or whatever of the campus radio station.”

“And?”

“And, I don’t know. Um, I was volunteering there last year and we became friends and whatever. It was mostly just friends.”

“And he taught you how to like sucking cock.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, his voice raw after toking up. “Someone asked if he was my dad once, but he’s only, um, ten years older than me.”

“That’s what you’re into,” Zayn says. “Someone older, to teach you the ways of mice and men.”

“I don’t have a type,” Harry says. “Just worked out that way a couple of times.”

“Right,” says Zayn.

“I just like nice people,” Harry says, “pretty eyes,” and he curls his fingers around the back of Zayn’s neck and leans in for a kiss.

It’s so strange being here, letting Harry stretch out on his back and then pull Zayn down, slotting his thigh between Zayn’s. Harry’s childhood bed in this Dwell cover shoot of a house. Zayn knows there are any number of good reasons not to be doing this right now (one of the guys could hear, Harry’s _mom_ could hear) but it’s easy to forget himself in the wet heat of Harry’s mouth. Too easy, which is just another reason not to. Zayn lets them all float away, grounds himself in the friction of Harry’s hips jerking up, his thighs squeezing tight around Zayn’s leg to hold him in place. Zayn’s got jeans on, but Harry’s just in his soft boxers, the head of his cock poking out through the flap. Zayn should take off his clothes, but it’s hot to lie over Harry fully dressed, to watch the pink flush spread across Harry’s chest as his hips hitch and his breath catches in the back of his throat.

Zayn flexes his thigh between Harry’s legs and grinds down.

“Did Nick teach you how to want this?” Zayn asks, bracing himself on the bed with one arm and rubbing his thumb over Harry’s nipple.

“I already knew about wanting,” Harry pants. He clings to Zayn’s hip, his other arm tangled in the pillows above his head. “He just showed me what to do about it.”

“How did it start?”

“We were drunk and dancing and I kissed him.”

“You made the first move.”

“Yeah.” Harry lets go of Zayn’s hip and reaches up so that both hands are twisted in the pillow.

“How did you know he wanted you?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “Worth a try.”

“But he kissed you back.”

“Uh-huh,” Harry says. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, baring the line of his neck. “He took me back to his place.”

“What did you do?”

“I sucked his dick.”

“And?”

“And he liked it,” says Harry.

“Then what?”

“Then he sucked my dick and I liked it,” Harry says, rolling his hips, rubbing against Zayn.

“Just like that.”

“Wasn’t complicated.”

“You’re easy,” Zayn says. “You’d let anyone give you what you want.”

“Maybe,” Harry says, lifting his leg to hook around Zayn’s waist.

Zayn moves his thumb off Harry’s nipple and runs his hand up the back of Harry’s thigh, fingers spreading just under the hem of Harry’s boxers. He holds Harry’s thigh with tight fingers to control the impact when he thrusts against him, grinding down. It’s got to be a lot of friction, but Zayn holds Harry close for it.

“Did Nick ever fuck you?” Zayn asks.

“Once,” Harry says. His back arches, but it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to get away “I was drunk.”

“Did you like it?”

“No,” Harry says, pressing his cheek into the underside of his arm.

“But you did it anyway.”

“I wanted to know what it was like.”

Zayn dips his head and sucks at the base of Harry’s neck, listens to the harsh sound of Harry’s breath as he rocks his thigh up against the hard line of Harry’s cock. They’re both sweating, and Zayn’s palm slips against Harry’s thigh.

Zayn kisses the underside of Harry’s jaw. Asks, “You want me to suck your dick now?”

Harry makes a sound that has no vowels through clenched teeth. “I can come like this,” he grits out.

“It’ll hurt,” Zayn says.

“I know.” Harry gasps. “Please.”

Zayn flattens his hips so that his belly is pressed against Harry’s, no space between their bodies. “And then who?” he asks.

“What?” Harry asks. He’s started to tremble.

“You learned how to suck Nick’s dick, and then who?”

“And then you,” Harry says, gasping so sharply, “Zayn, please.’

He bucks so hard when he comes that he almost throws Zayn off, curling in on himself, his whole body pulsing and contracting. Zayn eases the pressure of his hips and holds still while Harry shakes beneath him, rolls onto the bed when Harry finally settles, chest heaving. The front of Zayn’s jeans and t-shirt are wet with come.

Harry slides his arms down and covers his eyes with his wrists.

That wasn’t really buddies, Zayn thinks, slightly abashed, as he watches Harry rub at his eyes. One day Zayn is going to learn the right way to do casual sex.

Harry scrubs his wrist across his face, laughs into the crook of his elbow.

“Alright, babe?” Zayn asks lightly.

“No more talking from you,” Harry says and then he rolls himself over, folds onto the bed between Zayn’s legs and show Zayn exactly what Nick taught him to do with his mouth.

\--

Harry and Niall have a mostly normal apartment, except that it’s on the top floor of their building and has a balcony that wraps all the way around.

They walk inside and Harry says, “Well, looks like it’s alright in here,” and makes like he’s going to walk back out again.

Niall catches him by the elbow and shoves Harry in the direction of the kitchen. “Go make sure we didn’t leave anything in the fridge.”

“Do you wish you’d come to Vancouver for school?” Zayn asks when Liam sits down beside him on the couch.

“Don’t think I would have got into U.B.C.,” Liam says, shrugging. “And rowing at U.Vic is good, so I was happy to stay on the island.”

From inside the kitchen, Harry mutters, “Aw, crap,” and then there’s the sound of jars clanging together.

“Salsa does go bad,” he narrates helpfully. “In case you might have been wondering about that.”

Louis pushes off the armchair and wanders into the kitchen.

“Oh my god,” he shrieks, and then Harry shouts, “No, don’t open the lid!”

“Well, this is going to end with someone getting salmonella,” Liam says. “Think you’ll be able to drive Harry’s car back to the island?”

“We can just leave it here,” Zayn says. “Load them into the back of yours.”

Niall comes out of his bedroom, his eyes open wide in extreme alarm. “I need a garbage bag,” he says, walking into the kitchen. Then, “For the love of human decency, do _not_ put that into the sink, what are you _doing_?”

“How about you?” Liam asks. “Ever think about moving to Vancouver?”

There are windows along two sides of the room and Zayn can see green stretching out endlessly; Harry’s apartment looks down onto a golf course.

“Nope,” Zayn says, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.

\--

They go to lunch -- “Someone needs to clean that kitchen before anyone cooks _anything_. And Louis needs to be locked out on the balcony when it happens.” -- at the Medina Cafe and spend the rest of the afternoon planning a party.

Harry says, “Niall got a 60-pounder of rye, so that’s going to go well, I think.”

“Wasn’t the point of coming back to get your apartment set up for the year?” Liam asks. “This seems like doing the opposite.”

“No, it’ll be good,” Harry says. “Gotta blast out the cobwebs.” Harry’s been cheerful all day even though he got almost as little sleep as Zayn did last night. He’s different here, more comfortable in the city, louder where Zayn can feel himself fading away. This is how it goes, Zayn already knows. Harry comes back to his real life.

Harry and Louis do a food run and come back with takeout from Vig’s, which is spicy enough to bring tears to Liam’s eyes. Somehow that makes it even more delicious for Zayn, who helps himself to seconds. Harry shovels paneer into his mouth, his full attention on his phone.

The batcall they sent out worked and people start arriving early into the evening and don’t stop arriving even when night crashes in.

Harry has spilled something down the front of his shirt, which is a noticeably different shade of black than his pants. He’s wearing three silver chains around his neck and they’re tangled together, this knot of metal under the v-neck of his t-shirt.

He knows everyone here -- of course he does, these are his friends. Niall knows everyone here as well, and he’s louder about it, chatting animatedly in the center of the room. Harry’s just quiet on the couch, a girl on either side of him, and another guy sitting on the arm of the sofa. One of the girls crosses her legs and makes a point not to notice when Harry’s gaze slides down the endless curve of her thigh.

 _Oh_ , Zayn thinks. This is how it goes. But knowing doesn’t make seeing any easier.

The door to the balcony is open, and Louis dangling the top half of his body over the railing. Zayn thinks about walking over to him, but stays where he is.

Someone switches the music to The Weeknd and Harry’s grin changes. He pushes off the couch in one movement, twists himself into the middle of the room, shakes his hair and throws his arms in the air, and just like that everyone is dancing.

Zayn watches: learns the way Harry looks when he’s grinding up behind someone, quick and dirty before he’s dancing with someone else. Learns the curve of his wrists as he claps just shy of the beat. Harry’s penthouse apartment and the Range Rover parked underground. The view from the balcony. Zayn wonders if he could see the impossible mass of Harry’s mother’s house from here. He looks at Harry, learns how Harry looks when he works a room. The summer is going to end and Zayn still won’t know Harry at all. They’ll never be friends.

Nial bounces up beside Zayn, wraps his arm around his shoulder warmly. Zayn grins, bumps their hips together. He sings along with the chorus in falsetto, breathy, “ _You always come to the party to pluck the feathers off all the birds. You always come to the party on your knees. I will not beg you, please._ ”

Harry dances over to them, folds himself between Zayn and Niall, his face pressing into Zayn’s neck. Niall gives them both a hug before stepping away and there’s a moment where it’s just him and Harry, the heat of Harry’s mouth against Zayn’s skin. In the space of the breath before Harry pulls away, Zayn closes his eyes. He opens them and from across the room, he can see Louis watching them from his perch on the balcony.

\--

Louis doesn’t say anything until a couple of weeks later, when they’re chasing the last of the night’s darkness across the beach, treading across sand in the final stretch before dawn. 

“So,” Louis says as they walk up the coastline. “You’ve had a bit of fun this summer.”

Zayn looks over at Louis.

“With our young Mr. Styles.”

“Oh,” Zayn says. “You know about that.”

“No details,” Louis says. “I must insist.”

“O-okay,” Zayn says, laughing.

“Just thought we could have a friendly chat. Open the doors of communication,” Louis says, in that stupid way he has that actually makes him easy to talk to, even though Zayn knows it’s just a matter of time before Louis drags them into the tide to start a kelp fight.

“Did Harry tell you?” Zayn asks.

“Harry’s a filthy slut and he doesn’t kiss and tell,” Louis says. “Much.”

Zayn shakes his head.

“Just don’t tell me any details,” Louis says. “I’m being serious here.”

“You’ve got it, buddy.” Zayn stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“Summer love,” Louis says.

Zayn kicks at his ankles.

“It’s sweet!”

“I’m not in love,” Zayn says. “No one’s in love.”

“Give me a break,” Louis says. “You fall in love as regular as rain. And Harry doesn’t know how to exist in a world where people don’t love him.”

“Not this time,” Zayn says, and he almost truly means it.

“I love you and I love Harry,” Louis says, “but I’m pretty sure I’ll only be seeing one of you again once the summer is over.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. He twists his foot in the sand, rocking sideways so that his shoulder bumps against Louis’s. Maybe this is why Louis can always barrel forward at full speed -- he’s always got a clear view of the finish line.

“Just checking,” Louis says.

The tide is higher than Zayn realized and the first shock of water against his toes gives him a jolt. It’s good after that, treading in the last centimeter of water the ocean leaves behind when the waves roll out, feeling the surge against his ankles when they flow back in. The water makes the sand go soft between his toes.

“We should go somewhere,” Zayn says. “A year-round city.”

“Yeah.” Louis nods. “ _Where_?”

“I don’t know,” Zayn says. “That’s the catch, right?”

“We’re never going find anywhere more beautiful than this,” Louis says. The ocean is just visible against the cut of trees and mountains further in the distance. It’s almost morning, the first light of dawn before the orange sun rises.

They walk back towards the boys. Only the five of them are left after everyone else cleared out. The fire’s gone out and Niall is poking at the pile of ash with a stick. Harry’s sitting on a log, a plaid blanket wrapped around his knees.

“It was a good summer,” Zayn says, just before he and Louis are close enough to the guys that they’ll be able to hear.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “You’re not really going to leave, are you? We know how to do it right come fall -- _we’re_ year-round.”

“Nah,” Zayn says. “Idle threats. Just got to keep you on your toes.” 

The ocean crashes against against the shore in this tremendous exhale, sucks the water away again. Maybe this winter he and Louis can save up for kayaks. It’s easy to think about leaving until the point where he has to find somewhere else to go.

Zayn sits down beside Harry, who lifts the edge of his blanket and drapes it over Zayn’s knees. 

Two more weekends until September.

Zayn remember the first time he saw Harry, walking across the sand. His black trousers and his sharp white shirt. The heavy silver watch hanging off his bony wrist and the clean line of his leather belt. He looked like exactly like everything that Zayn had always known better than to try to touch.

Across the stretch of sand and over the ocean, the sun is starting to rise. Zayn twists his fingers together, breathes through the raw morning light and the sound of the waves breaking against the beach, the slow slide into morning. He rests his hand on the log in the space between his thigh and Harry’s, watches as the ocean ignites under the new sun.

>   
> 

And every night I give my body up  
limb by limb, working upwards  
across bone, towards the heart.  


> > **Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [livejournal](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/303489.html).


End file.
